


ventured in the slipstream

by sarcangel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blow Jobs, Botany, Car Sex, M/M, Mothman, Other Sex, Phone Sex, Pittsburgh, Point Pleasant WV, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 05:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: The late afternoon sun poured into the bedroom like a glass filled with light, burning over them; the sheets smooth on the skin of his back, Niall’s hair rough under his fingers. He was distilled down to touch, to the scrape of Niall’s beard against his shaking stomach. To the sound of his own voice crying out, beating like a bird call through the room.





	ventured in the slipstream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silvered_glass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered_glass/gifts).

> all my love to mj, who (seemingly willingly) gave this a read-through at a critical point. <3 <3 <3 i love you big time. and also thanks to shifty - i always appreciate your support!! 
> 
> angel, if you see this, i can’t think about the mothman without thinking about you <3
> 
> and for silv, because the gift of narry requires a gift of narry in return. i'm afraid this reciprocal effort is a complete fucking disaster, but that's just me, liam. i love you, i hope you don't hate this.

*****

It’s always red in the dream, since Harry’s gotten back. Not full red, more like licking out from the corners, flaring and dying at the margins of his brain like coals, like the embers of coals. 

He flies through the dense night, the sky flickering at the edges. Something’s racing below him: time, or water, the tips of trees. The air shifts and hums with the beating of wings, and he falls. 

He falls and falls, and never hits the ground. The ground is burning, reaching up to grope for him, to grope -

He wakes up, still half-trapped in the dream. Shadows paint the ceiling of his bedroom; he left the window cracked, and the curtain sucks in and out of the gap. It’s hot. The sheet’s twisted around his legs like vinca. He scrapes hair out of his face and kicks himself free. He doesn’t know, sometimes, if he’s touching himself or not; his own hand feels foreign, like it could be someone else’s.

The clock tells him he’s stuck in the silty dregs of night, the gritty residue left in the bottom of the pot. Three hours until he has to wake up, to plant several hundred begonias, to exist. It’s shit. 

At this hour, Niall’s either asleep or still at work; there’s a fifty-fifty shot of reaching him. He calls anyway.

“Harry?” Niall answers after a few rings, raspy and mushy. Asleep, then. “What’s up?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, curling around the phone. Relief spills through him. “You’re real, right?”

He can hear Niall’s intake of breath, the low chuckle of his exhale. “Think so. Hard to tell for sure. Do you want me to pinch myself or something?”

“Is that a reliable test for existence?”

“You’re the scientist, you tell me.”

“You’re the philosopher.” Harry starts to relax, unspooling his legs, spreading out over the bed.

“Not the same,” Niall yawns. “Closely related, though, same family - what’s that called, again?”

“Depends what you mean. Genus? Species?”

“Not those.” The speaker crackles; it sounds like Niall’s shifting around. 

“Taxon, maybe.”

“Yeah, that.” 

It’s quiet for a while. A fire truck passes nearby, headed down Centre, it sounds like, toward East Liberty.

“Did you have the dream again?” Niall sounds barely awake.

“I miss you,” Harry says, instead. _ My roots can’t find enough air. I’m waterlogged_, he wants to say. They haven’t talked about it, whatever this is becoming. More than a fling, less than something real.

“Come back,” Niall says. “I’m right here.”

*** ***

Point Pleasant, West Virginia, was somehow exactly and not at all what he pictured, crammed in the bend of a confluence, like Pittsburgh in only that way.

But the Lowe Hotel was charming, just like the pictures Camille showed him all those months ago. Charming, and small, and not a place he could stay for too long without going crazy. But there was more to the town than just the hotel; he’d mapped out a list of places he wanted to see.

The Corner Bar ended up being two lies at once, since it was neither on a corner or anything Harry expected, when he imagined a bar. It was a half-step above dive, a long rectangular hall that smelled like chicken and waffles and looked like it doubled as the local breakfast spot. But it was clean, and worn, and didn’t have any window signs about shotguns or Jesus, so it’d probably be okay.

It was filling up earlier than Harry expected for a Thursday night, which in retrospect was stupid - of course other people were coming into town for the festival. By a stroke of luck he found a spot at the actual bar’s long wooden expanse, tucked into the far right end of the hall, past the pool tables and the real tables. He slid into the only stool left, next to two girls that looked barely old enough to be there. They ignored him, it was wonderful.

Despite the crowd, the bartender found him fast enough. He was younger than Harry thought he’d be, close to his own age, and had all of his teeth, which was oddly disappointing. 

“Hi,” Harry said, as the bartender approached. Transactions, always harder than they should be.

But the bartender just widened his smile and nodded. “What can I get you?”

Of course. “A beer, I guess?” He wasn’t ready for this sort of questioning. He usually skipped over these parts, was the problem; always speeding up to the finish, where he was perched in an exotic place, surrounded by strangers, with something interesting and satisfying in his hand, the perfect solution to whatever he was thirsty for. It was the small details in the middle that messed him up.

“Lager? Porter? Ale?” The bartender turned and swept his hands toward the row of taps.

“Whatever’s good. Just not an IPA.” He didn’t need to taste like bitter flowers, especially not tonight. “Something local, maybe?” 

The bartender nodded and went to pour it, body blocking Harry’s view. It was all right, his worn out t-shirt clung to his shoulders and his jeans were tight, Harry couldn’t complain. He came back in a minute with a pint of something caramel-colored, foam hugging the top.

Harry sighed. It’d been a long day; a long drive, a long month.

The bartender lingered for a second, though he likely shouldn’t have, tapping at the glossy wooden bar top. “Here for the festival?

“Yeah.”

He smiled again, lopsided - it must have been practiced, but it seemed genuine enough, creasing up the corners of his yes. “Good.” Then he was off, hustling to the other end of the bar.

Harry picked up the glass. It was a comforting weight in his hand, cold and slippery. The brew was perfect - mellow and toasty and just what he wanted. Fantasy complete.

He turned on his stool to face the bar room. Someone had decorated for the festival, red Christmas lights were strung up everywhere; it was vaguely unsettling, like finding himself in an early circle of hell. The one for people who had eaten road dust for hours, after their air conditioning went out, after starting a road trip they’d been planning for months - meticulously, joyously, planning - which was now a solo road trip to a place they never wanted to go, because their girlfriend, the person who did want to go, who was highly, deeply interested in going, broke up with them. It was a very specific circle of hell, turned out.

The tables were full, now, crammed with people in the ten minutes since he arrived. A pool game was in progress, people who were even more obviously from out of town than him. He made a game of it, trying to pick out the tourists from the townees - an 80/20 split, if he were being fair. At least three people had their phones out, snapping pictures of the bar, the lights, each other. There was a dude with an actual selfie-stick, posing by the jukebox. It was an interesting mix.

“What do you think?”

The voice startled him, coming from behind his shoulder. He turned back to fully face the bar and held up his glass - it was empty. 

“Guess it hit the spot,” Harry said.

The bartender looked pleased. “Another? If you liked that one, can I try you on something else?” 

“Sure, dealer’s choice.” He didn’t know why he wanted the bartender’s approval - he was pretty past waiting on others’ approval, generally. But he did.

People sifted in and out while he drank, and watched: the ones making a whole night of it, ordering their baskets of fried food, settling into their tables. Another bartender was working the floor with efficiency, filling drinks, whisking things away. It was harder than it looked; his own failed stint at tending bar in college told him so.

Harry was three pints in and softening at the edges, when two more bartenders arrived - ten p.m., per his phone. Must’ve been the changing of the guard. 

“Our relief,” Niall shouted, giving Laura a wave out on the floor. Harry knew their names, by then; the cash register was right by where Harry was sitting, he didn’t feel bad about eavesdropping. A normal human instinct, after all. 

“Watch out for that group at seventeen,” Niall said to the two new arrivals. He flicked his eyes over at the corner, a table Harry’d been watching for a while - couple of college kids, a few pitchers in. “They’re on the way to plastered.”

Laura beelined to hand off her tables, squeezing past Harry to round the corner of the bar. He kept his eyes turned forward, as he listened to the conversation behind him.

“It’s gonna get crazy tonight,” Laura said. “Hope you brought your running shoes.”

Niall laughed, not unkindly. “Don’t let Laura bring you down, it’ll be fine. Crowd’ll start thinning out by midnight. You’ve got this.”

“Bet _ you’re _ not leaving,” Laura said, something teasing in her tone.

“Bet you should shut the fuck up,” Niall hissed, just loud enough that Harry could make it out.

He shifted on the stool, turning enough to see Niall take off his apron, wadding it into a ball and pitching it somewhere Harry couldn’t see. It was too bad - Harry liked him, or liked listening to him, anyway, his easy laugh and the rasp beneath his voice. Harry liked looking at him, too, to be honest. 

Maybe it was too early to be disappointed, because Niall came around the bar to stand in front of Harry, a half a step too close. “Buy you a drink?” he asked, steadfastly ignoring whatever was happening behind Harry’s head.

“Depends,” he said, though he knew a smile was stretching his face.

Niall raised an eyebrow - just the one, like it was normal, being able to do that - and waited.

“What’s good, here?” Harry asked.

Niall grinned, supremely confident. From this close, his eyes were impossibly blue and the red Christmas lights sparked through his hair. Everything about him looked edible. 

“Come smoke with me, I’ll give you the whole list.” Niall nodded toward the back door, propped open to let the cool air in. 

“Sure, yeah.” Harry stood up. He wasn’t too wobbly, after all, just a little loose. Loose was good. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“I know.” Niall nudged him to get him moving, started leading the way to the back door. “Saw that on your credit card.”

“Oh.” Of course he did. “And you’re Niall.”

“I am,” Niall said, pushing the door open the rest of the way. 

Late September was still pretty warm in that part of the country, but there was an edge of coolness in the air once they stepped outside. The back door opened onto an alley of sorts, if a town that small needed an alley - a narrow street to hold the dumpsters and other detritus wedged between businesses in the main commercial stretch. It was half-lit, and half-quiet, music from the bar trickling out the cracked door. Niall was cast in shadow, easing past Harry to close it the rest of the way.

“Nothing but nosiness in there. Got a cigarette?” Niall asked, looking up into Harry’s face. His mouth curved a bit in a half-smile, like nothing out there could be the full thing, could be fully real. It felt unreal, the way Niall was looking at him.

“Nope,” Harry said, leaning back against the wall.

It was the right thing to say. Niall edged closer, close enough to cage Harry in. “Didn’t want one, anyway.”

“Kill you, those things.” He got his fingers in Niall’s t-shirt, pulled him in the rest of the way.

“Can’t have that,” Niall breathed, and then Harry leaned down, and Niall leaned up, and they were kissing.

Niall’s mouth was hot, and tasted like whiskey, and he dipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth in careful sips, like Harry was a non-renewable resource, and he didn’t want to run out too soon. It was all he could do to hang on, to grip Niall’s hips and bring them closer together.

“Harry,” Niall groaned, against Harry’s neck, and his voice was pure gravel.

The door to the bar flew open, and the drunk kids from table seventeen tripped out. Niall froze, taut in Harry’s arms, and some of the red lights from the bar must have spilled out, too, because there was a second of weird overlay, where nothing was quite the right color or quite the right shape. And then one of the kids was puking, in a bad way, three feet down the alley from them, next to the dumpster, completely oblivious to the scene he interrupted.

Niall looked up at Harry, face utterly blank. Then he blinked, and smiled, and Harry must have been more drunk or more stressed than he thought, because everything was normal again.

“Want to get out of here?” Niall asked, evaluating the situation by the dumpster. The retching was over, although one never knew for sure.

“All right,” Harry said. “You owe me a cigarette, anyway.” 

*** * ***

Harry’s at work in the orchid room the second time it happens. That’s it: out of nowhere, there’s smoke in his nostrils, and he’s gone.

_ He’s floating in the night sky, the stars clear and crisp, bright cutouts in an endless dark. There’s a heartbeat against his back, a chuckle on his neck, warm like cinders. They pick up speed, Harry and whoever is with him, holding him suspended; racing over bridges, skimming down close to the tops of trees. _

_ It changes in a tick, too fast to track. The trees turn frightening, distorted shadows reaching up to scrape at them, knock them from the sky. Terror sprouts, a curl of smoke, pungent on the back of his tongue. He falls. _

_ He falls, and the night dissolves and reforms, shapes itself into the city’s familiar silhouettes and street corners, drawn in shadow. _

_ He’s standing on a sidewalk, fire blooming from a building like crepe poppies. He coughs ash out of his lungs, and doesn’t recognize his own cough, guttural, deep. He’s cold, in spite of the fire, in spite of the blanket around his shoulders, and his mouth tastes like burning rubber, burning fabric. A woman’s crying next to him, big gulping cries, completely noiseless. She turns to say something, and her face blurs into static. _

“Harry. _ Harry_!”

Details return. Cold tiles are digging into his back. Sarah’s face swims into view. There’s a line between her eyebrows like she’s been there for a while. He starts to sit up, and the knobs of his spine go haywire.

“Don’t move,” Sarah says, pressing down on his shoulders to keep him in place.

Maybe he’s been there for a while, too. The back of his head aches, dully. He shouldn’t have cut his hair. Old Harry wore a bun there, on propagation days. Old Harry wore a lot of things.

“What,” he croaks. He licks his lips, tries again. “What happened?”

“Was gonna ask you that.” She looks relieved, now that he’s talking. “Do you know where you are?”

“The orchid room.” He sits up, over her protests. Sarah slips her arm around him once she sees he’s determined to do it, gingerly feeling out the back of his head. He winces, but her hand comes away clean. It’s before hours at the conservatory, so no one’s here, at least.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asks.

He doesn’t. One minute he was working on the overgrown Frank Sarris, cutting the back bulbs into smaller sections for propagation. The next minute he was on the floor, Sarah blinking down at him. 

“Just got dizzy, I think.”

She frowns. “Has that happened before?”

It has. Two days ago, on the bus line home. He lost himself somewhere on Craig Street, came out of it in Point Breeze. He had to walk home through Mellon Park, shaken and disoriented; it’s gorgeous this time of year, even if he couldn’t fully appreciate it.

“No,” he says, shifting away from her arm. She helps him stand up. Everything’s wobbly but works just fine. The orchid cuttings are undisturbed, in the damp moss where he set them.

It doesn’t happen again all day. He spritzes the new divisions and moves them to the grow room. Leads a tour of kindergartners on a field trip. Helps a photographer line up potential shots for an upcoming wedding. 

Goes home. Makes tea. Takes a bath. Has a slippery wank, thinking of other fingers; a voice gone rough with want, over soft West Virginia vowels. Goes to bed.

It sticks with him for days. The building burning on the edge of his mind, familiar lines he can’t place.

*** * * ***

“Your legs are too long,” Niall said, “this is never going to work.”

How they ended up against his car, in his car, Niall straddling his lap in the back seat, he couldn’t piece together, afterwards.

“Be creative,” Harry said, pressing his palm against the bulge in Niall’s pants, watching Niall’s eyes squeeze shut, the indent in his lower lip where his teeth dug in.

“Christ.” Niall leaned in for a kiss, long and deep. “Okay.” He wedged a hand between them to pop the button on Harry’s jeans. “Scoot up.”

Harry was grateful for tricep dips, all of a sudden, pushing himself up enough for Niall to shove everything down, enough to get to the important parts.

Things got blurrier, once Niall got a hand on him. 

“Shit,” Harry said, pulling him back into a sloppy kiss. Niall’s hand was tight, and dry, and the best thing he’d felt in months. 

The noise of Niall’s own zipper tore through the sound of their breathing. And then Niall bumped their dicks together, and Harry felt like he was burning up from inside and out, all at once, between the tropical heat of the car’s interior and Niall joining their hands, touching both their dicks at the same time. 

Harry groaned, and Niall licked it from his mouth, tore his lips away to pant against the side of Harry’s neck. 

“Ah, ah.” Niall’s hips were jerking against Harry’s, now, both of them slick enough to be messy. Little sounds leaked out of his mouth, like he was biting back words in his quest to keep quiet.

Harry came, almost out of nowhere, biting down on the corner of Niall’s neck, lapping at the salt tang of sweat. A heartbeat later, Niall shuddered in his arms, and sagged against him.

It took a few minutes to settle down, settle back into his skin. Niall sucked air, chest rising and falling against his, keeping close in the stifling car.

Harry snuck clean his hand up the back of Niall’s shirt, scratching lightly at the damp skin there. “That was messy.” His own voice was a rusty can.

Niall huffed out a laugh and sat up some. “So romantic.” He leaned in for a kiss, soft this time.

“Heyyy.” Harry dragged it out, scratching his nails up Niall’s back. “This was highly improvised. I’m very romantic, under the right circumstances.”

Niall laughed, and started easing his way off Harry’s lap. “We’re country folk, in these parts. Turn on the radio, we’ll hear a song with this exact premise in the next ten minutes.” He dove in for another kiss, hitting the side of Harry’s mouth. “Don’t worry, a hot car’s all the romance I need.”

Harry’s legs got cold without Niall on top of him, and he was a complete mess to boot, jizz pooled on his stomach where his shirt rucked up.

“Don’t suppose you have any Kleenex in here,” Niall asked, looking over the cramped back seat.

Harry pulled his shirt the rest of the way off. “This’ll do, I think. You can have it first.”

Niall clutched the shirt to his chest. “Told you. Romantic.” In the dark of the car, it looked like he was batting his eyelashes. 

Harry laughed, despite himself. He wasn’t good at these moments, negotiating the things that made people stick around. Usually it happened on accident. 

“So.” He took the shirt back from Niall, and started mopping himself up, stomach growling as he swiped the cotton over it.

“So.” Niall repeated. “Could get something to eat. Hungry myself.”

He pretended to think that over. “Food sounds nice. Might have to get something to wear, first. My hotel is close, if you want.” He balled his dirty shirt up and chucked it on the floor.

Niall winced, watching him. “Could, uh. Come to my house, and I could make us food. You could drive, like. If you’re worried about me being some kind of creeper -”

“You’re looking at this wrong. What if I’m the creeper, and you’re the hapless local?” Harry scooted over on the seat, towards the door.

Outside, blessed cold air shivered over him.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Niall said, sliding out the other side.

Harry looked at him, over the top of the car. “Are you sure? Like, I know this is weird.” 

“I’m sure.” Niall opened the passenger door, waiting. “Get in, would ya? I’m fucking starving.”

*** * * * ***

He’s been back for a week when Sarah and Mitch invite him over for dinner. It’s not until he’s there that he realizes how long it’s been since they’ve gotten together, all of them, though he sees Sarah almost every day at work.

Mitch cooks, hand-made pierogi and roasted squash, and they all eat around the kitchen table. It’s comfortable, the place they’ve made for him in their lives, just enough to fit; a Harry-shaped hole that he slots into, perfectly.

“What have you been up to?” Harry asks, around a mouthful of dumpling.

Mitch shrugs. “Same old.” His smile is as sweet as ever. “Studio’s booming. Wrote a few new songs, it’s good.”

“That’s great. Songs I can listen to? After dinner? Right now?”

“Always,” Mitch says. “Need your opinion on one of them, anyway.” 

It’s good, being able to help, like he’s earned the space he takes up here. And it’ll be nice to listen to music, have something different to take up his brain waves. He gets in a rut, this time of year, where all he thinks about is weddings and winter plant prep.

Sarah puts her fork down, squaring her shoulders. “I’m worried about you.”

Mitch looks away, coloring a little. They must have discussed this ahead of time; looks like Mitch didn’t win the argument.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, taking a drink of his water. He is fine, since coming back, even if he’s more untied, a stringless balloon escaped from the birthday party. 

“You seem lonely.” Sarah says.

“Isn’t everyone?” Harry evades. “It’s a state of being.” His phone buzzes in his pocket and his heart leaps, for no reason. It could be anyone: his mum, Jeffrey. It’s not necessarily Niall. Still, it’s the idea of it - having someone cupped in his pocket, thinking about him from over three hours away. Someone who’s made space for him so wide and deep, he’s not done discovering it all.

“Did you ever see the doctor?” Sarah asks. “About that thing.”

“That thing?” He’s being purposefully obtuse. 

“You know,” she says. She rolls her eyes back into her head and slumps at the table in explanation. “That thing.”

“Only happened once,” he lies. It’s happening, still; it’s nothing he can’t manage - a few seconds here and there. Yesterday he hit his head on the edge of the bathtub, before he could even get in, the fragile pink water waiting for him, still steaming. His skin feels too tight, all the time, like he’s about to burst out of it, a carapace holding him together.

She rolls her eyes again, but lets it drop.

After dinner, he goes upstairs with Mitch and they lay on the guest room floor and listen to Mitch’s new songs. It’s easy, lying there, touching at the fringes, music moving deep and slow between them. Good, not having to say anything. There was a time, before Sarah, before Camille, when a thing almost sparked between them, when they danced around each other, angels on the edge of a pin. 

It’s gone, that future. Mitch tips their heads together on the floor, so their temples are touching, and Harry feels his breath slow down. It’s different. Sarah means well but Mitch knows what it’s like, to fit everywhere but belong almost nowhere.

“It’s good,” Harry says. “I like it.” 

“Yeah?” Mitch sounds surprised. He’s never sure of his own gifts.

Eventually, they run out of songs. Harry pries himself off the floor; his back is a mess. 

Downstairs, Sarah’s started a movie.

“Sorry,” she says, waving her glass of wine at the screen. “I was going to wait for you, but then…”

“Then what?” Mitch asks, dropping onto the couch next to her.

“Then, I didn't.” She shrugs and takes a drink. 

Harry checks his phone, finally. There’s a text from Niall: a picture with a caption. It’s a photo of a flower, of course, a long spire of tiny white flowers on a dainty stem - _ Spiranthes spiralis, _probably - mingled with wild grasses, shot gold and brown with the season. 

**Thought of you**, Niall added, like it required further explanation. 

_ Thanks xxx, _Harry types back, fast, like Sarah’s going to question him - which is ridiculous, she’s not his mother. But Niall’s a secret he wants to keep for a while longer, tucked tight against his side like a new tattoo.

So he puts his phone away and watches the movie. It’s nice, curled up in the armchair, drowsy from the wine, the early part of fall expanding around them, a breathing thing. 

*** * * * * ***

On Friday morning, he woke up in Niall’s bed instead of his hotel room, confused for a second by the soft sheets, the foot brushing against his calf.

Niall was awake already, blinking over at him from the other pillow. Harry froze for a moment, not sure if it should be awkward. He didn’t feel awkward, but maybe Niall did - he wasn’t always the most astute at reading other people, so much harder than plants - 

“Morning.” Niall said, smile half-eaten by his pillow. He reached out to touch Harry’s shoulder with a questing finger. 

Harry took Niall’s hand, steepled their fingertips together.

“Do you ever think about fingers, like,” Harry said, instead, like they never fell asleep, like it was still four a.m. and the sun was just slipping on its necktie, and they were muttering nonsensical shit into the sliver of darkness between them. “Or fingerprints, I mean. They’re just yours, you know? No one else’s.”

“Right,” Niall played along, propping himself up on an elbow, smile deepening with the sun. 

“And mine are just mine.” He played with Niall’s thumb, scraping his nail over the flat pad, before pushing their thumbs together. “So, in a way, it’s like… This can’t ever be replicated. With anyone else, I mean.”

“Show off.” Niall shifted closer, crossing the ocean of blankets between them. The early light caught at his stubble, turning it to golds and reds as he leaned in for a kiss.

It was a good moment, the kind Harry wanted to bottle and hang around his neck. Niall’s mouth, soft against his; his brain still thick with sleep, the few hours they managed last night. 

“Thinking of that,” Niall said, drawing back. “It’s like. When I touch you, it’s sort of like being touched the first time. Right? Like, maybe someone else touched you here.” Niall moved his fingers over Harry’s chest, the swallows’ dark ink protecting his jittering heart. “But it wasn’t my fingers, so. First time.”

“Interesting,” Harry said, holding himself still, eyes fluttering closed. “Tell me more.” His whole body felt like an exhibit of evidence, latent fingerprints patterning his surface.

Niall’s phone went off, from somewhere in the corner of the room.

“The fucking parade,” Niall groaned. He dropped his head against Harry’s shoulder, breath hitting Harry’s armpit.

Nothing connected for a minute. His whole brain was running on half-speed, still following the path that Niall’s fingers started. 

“Parade?” Harry asked.

“We’ve got to get ready,” Niall said, prying himself off of Harry to sit up. The sheets pooled around his waist; Harry could see the dark of a bruise mottling the crest of his hip. It made him hot all over. “_Harry. _ Stop ogling me, we’ve gotta get ready. I promised Laura I’d help with the fucking float for the fucking parade tomorrow. You’ve met her -”

“I haven’t, technically.” 

“She’ll murder me.” Niall tugged a shirt over his head, threw another one at Harry. “In front of witnesses. In the cold light of day.”

“And you… want me to come with?” He fiddled with the shirt in his hands, pulling the soft black fabric tight.

“Of course. If you want, that is.” Niall flung himself back onto the bed, and took the shirt from Harry’s hands. “Or you could check out the mothman museum, shouldn’t be too busy yet today.” He pulled the collar over Harry’s head, pinning his arms inside, and swooped in for a kiss - short, brooking no arguments.

“Is this weird?” Harry asked, working his arms through the sleeves. He had to ask, sometimes; his situational barometer was faulty, only alerting him when the storm was over, and he was left alone to comb through the wreckage.

“Dunno,” Niall shrugged. “Don’t care. I like you. And you seem like a man who knows his way around a float -”

“I don’t, actually. At all,” Harry said. “I like you, too.”

“That’s settled,” Niall said, satisfaction thick in his voice. “We can pick up your shit from the hotel on the way over there, if that’s alright.”

It was more than alright, more than he expected. And later, after breakfast, and Laura’s, and working on the float for the better part of a morning. After lunch, after stopping at the hotel to grab his still-packed suitcase. The late afternoon sun poured into the bedroom like a glass filled with light, burning over them; the sheets smooth on the skin of his back, Niall’s hair rough under his fingers. He was distilled down to touch, to the scrape of Niall’s beard against his shaking stomach. To the sound of his own voice crying out, beating like a bird call through the room. Niall’s mouth was hot, so hot. And he was falling.

The Mothman Festival started properly on Saturday, half street-fair and half something else, something other, like the creature that spawned it; recognizable only by knowing what it wasn’t.

Niall brought him up on the float for the parade, and the crush of people surrounding them was intense. He loved it, that feeling - like he could get lost in a crowd, swallowed up by the press of people until nothing of his actual self remained. Laura was blasting Fleetwood Mac from a stereo she’d hidden under the glued-on vines, _ smilax tamnoides _, and he’d remember it like that: late afternoon, sweating down his back, the crowd around them dancing to Dreams, floaty and expansive, while he threw candy to the kids.

“What’s this got to do with the mothman?” Harry shouted over at Niall.

“Nothing,” Niall yelled back. “Just throw the candy!” 

He felt drunk on it, Niall’s smile basting his skin.

“Dance!” Laura laughed at them, beneath her mothman costume. It was hilarious, incongruous; all black feathers and leathery flesh, an ominous form pasted over her tiny body.

There wasn’t much space on the float for dancing, but he did his best.

After the parade, they parked the float at the end of downtown. Niall pressed a beer into his hand. “Come with me,” he said, eyeing Harry in a way that made the blood sprint through his veins.

Harry drank half his beer in one go. “Of course.”

For a moment, Niall leaned in, like he was about to kiss Harry then and there, whatever place he had in mind not close enough. Harry was ready for it, when Niall backed away, blinking.

“Sorry,” Niall said, waving at the street, the people lined up on the sidewalks. “Don’t make a secret of being how I am. But you never know.”

But they made it the few blocks to the bar, somehow, and then to Niall’s office in the back, tucked behind the keg room, Niall maneuvering him so quickly Harry didn’t even see the bartenders on duty.

“Here.” Niall flipped the lock and pushed him against the door, pushed their mouths together, over and over. It all twisted together; it was too much.

He got Niall’s shirt off without remembering how. “You smell like flowers,” Harry said, against the skin of Niall’s chest, the skin of Niall’s stomach, slightly damp under his tongue. And in another moment, the skin of Niall’s cock, salty and arching up to meet his lips.

“Harry,” Niall gasped, and petted at Harry’s hair, clumsy while Harry worked him over.

Harry’s knees ached against the office’s wood floor, but it was worth it; Niall’s come spurting over his mouth and chin, Niall looking limp and wrecked and utterly fond, dropping down to kiss Harry like he could never get enough.

“Get up,” Niall said, pulling Harry’s shirt over his head.

“Bossy,” Harry said, shedding the rest of his clothes.

“You have no idea.” Niall pushed Harry back onto the desk. “Lucky I did the books earlier this week.” It was like every fantasy, every dumb porno Harry’d ever watched - Niall’s mouth sucking his skin, bruising his neck, bruising his chest.

“You like that?” Harry asked, as Niall sucked a third mark into him, at the bottom of his ribs. 

“Gotta make my mark,” Niall said, twisting his hand over Harry’s dick, thumbing at his slit. “God knows you have enough already.”

And then Niall’s mouth was on him, splitting over the head of his prick, tongue doing things that Harry didn’t know were possible.

He dug his fingers into Niall’s hair, still sweaty at the roots. “Niall,” he said, so loud they could probably hear him in the taproom, panting and moaning, thrusting into Niall’s throat; it was that that put him over the edge. All those people, beautiful and strange, caught in Niall’s orbit - but it was Harry he chose, Harry he wanted.

*** * * * * * ***

Difficult decisions are an important part of life as an adult, Harry knows. And he’s out of food, except for things that come in boxes, and he’s in the mood for something not boxed. Fresh, as people say. He had finished early at work, an almost unthinkable feat during wedding season, and while he’d rather do almost anything else, he makes the walk to Giant Eagle.

It’s a beautiful day for the tenth of October, the sun’s bright beam diluted by the angle of the earth. Instead of heading down Negley, he sneaks north on Ivy to the footbridge over the busway. Some days it’s ominous, the footbridge, a concrete slab suspended over a concrete road, closed in with arches of chain link. But today, there’s nothing strange about it - midday on a Thursday, the footbridge is empty, serene.

Giant Eagle’s the same as usual, an incongruous, air conditioned square in the city’s stink and rippling heat. The produce waits in its faux-rustic display boxes, and the smell of apples permeates everything. They’ve upped their game, with Whole Foods so close, but it’s still a city grocery store.

Once, in a fit of wildness, Harry drove all the way to Bethel Park for groceries, to stand amazed by the rows of greens and melons, more _ c. melo _cultivars than he’d seen in one place in his life, freshly spritzed under the fluorescent grocery store lights. Standing in all that luxury felt bad, to him. He ended up leaving with nothing, in odd loyalty to the city.

At the edge of the vegetable aisle, a woman examines arugula with tenderness and care. She twists it back and forth in her hands, rubs a leaf between her fingers. He could do some arugula; make a pizza, maybe. He’s listing out the ingredients he needs, half-distracted, and he’s totally unprepared when it happens.

The woman shakes the arugula, and lifts it to her face, inhaling the green peppery scent. She starts to change. Her body elongates, towering over the vegetable stand; her hands clutch the greens like talons. 

Shadow falls over the produce aisle, flimsy and dull, pulsing like the unsteady beat of his heart, punctuated with terror. He shouldn’t have had that cold brew, that too-old creamer - it was almost expired, he knows better. The woman starts turning to face him, and the air shudders, and he’s going to pass out. He blinks, squeezing his eyes together, tight - and when he opens them, everything’s normal again. She’s just a woman, picking out food; she tosses the herb into her basket, and he can move again. 

It throws off the trip. He could leave, but he needs food. If he doesn’t get it now, he’ll just have to come back later, or pick a different store. He likes this store, is the thing. When he gets home, he’ll call the doctor, like Sarah’s been telling him to. The doctor will help him.

He works his way through the aisles, hazy but fine, selecting food at random from the shelves. Peanut butter. Edamame. Kalamata olives. Whatever looks good. Capers, for the pizza he wants to make.

He comes fully back to himself in the baking aisle, examining different boxes of pancake mix. Niall had the yellow box, at his house. He remembers it, standing open on the kitchen counter, while Niall mixed batter and flipped cakes, singing Don Henley into the spatula, blueberries bubbling on the stove. Who makes fresh blueberry sauce? It burned his mouth, it was so sweet.

He grabs the red box off the shelf, instead. 

Later, when he’s home, and the groceries are put away, and he’s eaten his sad pasta and wistful chicken, and watched a movie, and read another chapter of The Great Cacti, and called Jeff back.

He tries to do it himself, with his own fingers, feel the same desperate tautness stretching below his skin - but it’s not the same.

_ Did it happen? Are you real? _ he texts Niall. He deletes it before he sends it, this time.

The dream catches him again, its red hands plucking at his fabric, turning him inside out.

*** * * * * * * ***

Sunday afternoon he hugged Niall in his gravel driveway and left Point Pleasant, continuing on the trip he planned with Camille all those months ago. Things in real life didn’t usually turn out like they did in songs - either that, or no one ever sang about hugging someone you’d known for three days in a dirt driveway, or how the dust clogged your throat and lingered there for miles. It was always about the moon, a rooftop, the New Jersey turnpike.

He arrived in Huntington on schedule**, **and checked into his motel. He filled the day with sight-seeing; it was a good distraction. He went to the conservatory, where they had a Ghost Orchid on display, its white bloom shaped like a frog’s open mouth. He sent a picture to Sarah, just to make her jealous - she’d seen one before, but never in bloom. He visited the Museum of Radio and Technology, like he promised Nick he would. 

He had a nice dinner, got to bed early. Tossed all night on the motel’s shitty mattress, feeling like he could hear every cough, every rustle of sheets through the wafer-thin walls; his skin so tender against the sheets, like it might break open, raw paper about to burn.

He was up before dawn and back in the car, driving through the fog rolling off the Ohio river, an itch behind his chest bone urging him on. The fog burned off a few miles out of the city, and then there wasn’t anything left to shield him from his own bad decisions.

He pulled over just before his next destination, before the lone exit ramp, breath cramping in his chest. It was probably all the coffee he drank - it wasn’t good for him, all that brown acid climbing up the walls of his stomach. 

What was he doing? He had seven days of vacation left, a whole week of life where he didn’t have to wake up on time or worry about nematodes invading the fern room or do anything at all, other than what he wanted. And here he was, about to roll back into Point Pleasant and invite himself to - what? To worm his way into Niall’s life, and never leave?

It wasn’t realistic. But. An entire week. The thought of it shot sparks up his spine. He laid his head against the steering wheel, and sent the text.

_ Are you at work? _

**Not until tonight, ** Niall sent back, right away. ** U make it ok ?**

_ Not really. _He was an idiot, thinking this was going to work out.

**Ok ????**

_ Can explain in person? _ His heart was pounding, squished as it was between his collarbone and stomach. If Gemma were there, she’d have lectured him about assuming people would make room for him, in their lives. People did, usually, was the thing. He picked his head up off the steering wheel, put the car into gear. At least he could drive through town again, get some pictures that he forgot to take the first time around.

The phone rang just as he started to edge back onto the road.

“Harry,” Niall said, exasperated and laughing. “I’m home. Just come over.”

He pulled into Niall’s dirt driveway seven minutes later - five hundred and sixty seven beats of his terrorized heart, if he had been counting - and barely got the suitcase out of the car before Niall was on him, pressing him back against the warm fiberglass side and licking into his mouth, hands digging into the soft edges of his hips. 

“Hi,” Niall said, pulling back. His hair was in a terrible tangle, like he left it to air dry. He smiled and stuck his thumb into Harry’s dimple. 

“Hi,” Harry replied.

Niall pulled him by the belt loops down the drive to the house, keeping their mouths connected as much as possible, Harry’s suitcase tripping them up.

“Drop that fucking thing, I swear to god, Harry,” Niall got out, between kisses. 

So he dropped it, left it in the middle of the driveway, gathering dust.

The week passed in a blur. Niall was home or not home, based on when he worked, which was sometimes during the day and sometimes at night, but he left a key on the kitchen counter and made no mention of Harry staying elsewhere. 

He should have been uncomfortable, making himself at home in Niall’s home. But that was the thing - Niall didn’t make him feel invited, Niall made him feel expected. Harry’d done this before: stayed with friends, and couples; stayed so long that it was practically cohabitation. He wasn’t always good by himself. But he’d never had someone just open their life, no invitation necessary. He never felt like he wasn’t a guest. Like there wasn’t a set of rules to follow, a veneer of politeness that had to be maintained.

If Niall was at work during the day, Harry went for a walk or a drive to check out the local flora. Niall’s yard itself was a delight of weird plantings, half-wild.

And when Niall wasn’t at work, he was with Harry. Above him, in him, arms shaking with effort, sweat running down the side of his neck.

“Like this,” Harry said, gripping Niall’s hips tight enough to bruise. He hoped to bruise him, hoped to leave Niall with marks to remember.

He was stretched out around Niall’s dick, Niall muttering nonsense, new scripture, a whole book of praise. Niall started to move; slow, deep. Harry scrabbled at his back, making a noise he’d never heard himself make before. 

“Harry,” Niall chanted, sucking kisses into Harry’s neck, his shoulders. “Harry, Harry.”

He dug his heels into the mattress and pushed up, and Niall pushed in, and it was too much; always too much. He flew apart, incinerating.

He could get used to it, the patterns they made. Though they were on borrowed time, it felt endless, luxurious. Niall everywhere and nowhere, waking Harry up at two a.m. with his hands and his mouth; and then talking, telling stories, listening, keeping them awake until daybreak. He was like something Harry invented, just to suit himself.

But the week marched on, relentless. On Friday, Niall was on day shift, and Harry drove out to the TNT area, just to see it, before he had to go - the start of a myth, an origin story. It felt dumb, holding his breath, half-terrified that something would show itself to him. Nothing did. In the end, it was just a concrete hole in the side of a hill, dark and tangled with vines, opening like a maw into a greater unknown. In the surrounding field, the leaves were drenched in sun, and late-season goldenrod shimmered, thick with bees. It was almost impossible to think of anything bad being born out of such abundance.

After, he drove out to the bar for a pint, and sat at a table in the back like he didn’t even know Niall, like he wasn’t watching the way people circled him for a minute, a joke, a brief stint in his light. Then Niall caught his eye and winked, and he was on the inside of the joke for once.

*** * * * * * * * ***

Things gets harder when Harry discovers he can’t drive anymore. It doesn’t come at the best moment: mid-October, six-thirty in the morning, pelting down rain. Plus there’s a field trip coming in, and the Sweet Flag needs dividing, and Harry can’t drive. He lifts his hand to start the car, and his hand... won’t. It lays on his lap like a sleeping cat, warm and useless.

It works for other things, his hand, like picking up his phone and calling Sarah, and opening the car door, and pressing the button on the umbrella handle. 

It’s a temporary incapacitation. He discovers the trick to it, a few days in. So long as his destination’s not too far, everything works fine. And other times there’s nothing for it, and he takes the bus or rides his bike, or walks. Everything he needs to live’s in a pretty small radius, at least: work and home, the grocery store, the pharmacy.

Jeff and Glenne invite him to dinner on Friday, and getting there is a dicey proposition. He’s been working out all week how to make it there. The bus line’s not great; it’ll take an hour, and a line change, but it’s an option if all else fails. He slides into the car and pictures CVS, its red and white sign like a beacon, a lighthouse, gently guiding his ship - so close, not even six blocks away - and his hand lifts, and the car starts.

It’s a short-lived triumph. The farther west he goes, the more miles he puts between himself and the CVS on Centre, between himself and Shadyside, the more awful he feels, like his heart’s a rubber band, pulling tighter and tighter, stretching all the way out until the minute cracks are visible, textured ravines splitting the edges of the band. He hits the Liberty Tunnels and sweat runs down his back. It’s the longest mile of his life, with the weight of an entire mountain sitting on his lungs, the lights of the tunnel running endlessly before him.

He comes out of the tunnel into Dormont, and the rubber band snaps. He breathes, free and easy, and the mountain eases off of him.

Dinner with Jeff and Glenne is nice, though he feels so changed since he was last there that he waits for Jeff to say something, to tease it out of him like a chemical compound. Jeff’s working on a new cultivar of heuchera, a breakthrough hybridization that creates greater hardiness in wet winter conditions.

“They’re so susceptible to heave, you know,” Jeff says, gathering plates off the table. “A deeper root system would solve so many problems.” The light glints over his glasses like the flicker of flames on a window, and it makes Harry queasy for a second.

Harry helps with dishes, like he always does, falling back into the simple routine of being part of their unit. Glenne hums under her breath as she dries.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says, oddly shy.

Glenne sets the last plate in the cabinet. “You’re welcome to stay,” she says, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek.

He has stayed, plenty of times. They joked once about dedicating him the guest room, picking out paint swatches to make it permanent. But he needs to get back to the city; he feels it, like an itch on his scalp.

“Thanks. But I have to be in early, tomorrow.” He shrugs. “Wedding season, you know.” The lie sits awkward on his tongue, but Glenne doesn’t notice anything, just pats him on the shoulder and smiles.

The drive back to Pittsburgh proper is a relief, the city reeling him back in. He doesn’t fight it. Niall calls when he’s almost home, and talks his ear off about beer orders and spreadsheets as he drives the last few blocks. 

“Liquor cost is killing me this month,” Niall says, while Harry kicks his shoes off in the hallway.

“Why’s that, do you think?”

“I hired that new bartender.”

“The bass player?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, that one. Can’t pour to save his life, and it’s costing me. Should have listened to you. How was dinner?”

“It was good. Jeff’s working on a project, it’s really interesting. Might try to help him out, get back in the lab.” Harry shucks his jeans, tosses them over the comfortable armchair. The espostoa won’t care that he’s pantless in the living room; that’s part of the beauty of plants. They don’t judge.

“Tell me about it,” Niall says. “What makes it interesting?” 

Through the phone’s shitty speaker, Harry can hear the beep of Niall’s microwave. He loves his life, his friends; his plants and his work. He loves Pittsburgh’s coal-stained slouch, pooled in the bend of rivers. But for a second, he wishes acutely that he was there, in Niall’s kitchen, watching him heat up leftovers or whatever he’s about to eat.

“Well. It’s about a plant,” Harry starts, just to hear him laugh. The hopeless kind, that shakes out of Niall like salt.

He goes to the doctor on Monday, and she prods at him and schedules an MRI “to rule things out,” but otherwise gives him a clean bill of health. Perhaps he’s dehydrated or not sleeping enough. He buys a multivitamin and a case of coconut water on his way home.

And there’s work to do, despite the dreams, the minutes he loses from his day. Work keeps him busy. It keeps his hands busy, his mind busy. It’s still October, but they’re already designing the Christmas display at Phipps. They want to do something different this year; cutting edge, more than poinsettias and Lenten roses. He throws himself into the research.

When he’s not at work, he helps Jeff in the lab. It’s tedious, fascinating work – examining root clusters, freezing and thawing the soil. Precisely noting methods and progress, the plants and soil types more susceptible to heave. At least Carnegie Mellon is close, and an easy walk if he can’t drive. It’s good, too, spending more time with Jeff, although it displaces him in time; almost, he could be an undergrad, listening to Jeff’s steady, patient instruction. Jeff’s not a grad student anymore. They’re both professionals in their own right, though they’ve gone down different paths.

He gets home at night and he’s exhausted, down to the red marrow of his bones. It doesn’t stop the dreams; nothing stops the dreams. He escapes the fire in time, every time. He knows the taste of ash better than his own breath. But being tired helps, in its own way – makes everything fuzzier, more remote. Like it’s happening to someone else.

Everything about West Virginia is hazy. When he was there, it was sharp and real and vivid as nasturtium, pepper in his mouth. But now that he’s home it seems imagined, out of a dream, and he has to pull out his phone and check the pictures, the texts. Run his own hands over the places that Niall touched. 

“Say something sexy,” Niall says, tinny over the weird cell connection. 

It’s hard to concentrate, with his dick in his hand, to keep working himself, and talk to Niall, and think about Niall, doing the same thing, two hundred miles distant. The sharp taste of his sweat, the way his skin stretches over his bones.

“Taxonomy. Endosperms. Asteraceae.”

Niall gives a strangled laugh. “I miss you,” he says, low and honest. “Why do I miss you so much. Harry.” His breath is harsh, and Harry knows he’s close.

“Shhh,” Harry soothes him, best he can. Niall sounds scared, and wrecked, and his breath is so loud he could be three inches away. The feeling in Harry’s stomach tightens, tightens.

“Microsporangia**,” **he groans, then he’s coming all over himself.

“Shit,” Niall says, and laughs, and moans so loud Harry’s glad he lives alone.

*** * * * * * * * * ***

He woke up, suddenly and completely. At first to nothing, just the night in Niall’s bedroom. Then to a sound, like buzzing but not buzzing, heavy and somehow thick, coming in from the open window. Niall wasn’t in bed, or anywhere that Harry could see. It was all wrong. The buzzing got louder, and worse. Between one breath and the next, between swiping his hair out of his eyes and pushing back the blanket, he was saturated with despair, crushing and awful - more awful because it wasn’t his own; it was coming from somewhere else, someone else.

He got up, slowly. Wandered the dark house, alone. There was no Niall in the kitchen, no Niall in the living room. 

“Niall?” he tried to call. But it was too quiet, his throat too clogged to make more noise than a scratch.

He went out onto the porch, and the despair transformed to terror. The yard was plunged into shadow, the trees so thick not even the moon could light it. The buzzing deepened, turned to beating, rhythmic and loud – and over everything, over the black yard, a shadow fell. He was frozen in place, petrified.

“Harry?” There was a voice behind him, a hand on his arm. He yelped and flinched, able to move at last. “It’s just me,” Niall laughed, low and sleepy, turning him around, putting a hand on Harry’s face. “You look terrified.” 

“Where were you?” Harry mumbled, moving into his arms, feeling scared and silly and like his skin was too thin to package him in.

Niall gathered him up, mouth warm in the crook of Harry’s neck. “I was in the bathroom, weirdo. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Harry said, against his shoulder. “That makes sense.” The yard was to his back, and the skin on his neck crawled with it.

“Let’s go back to bed. If we’ve only got one more night, I don’t want to waste -”

“Shhh,” Harry said, steering Niall back inside the house. “We’re not talking about it.”

The screen door slammed behind them, and its loud clatter broke the last of whatever it was, hanging over the house. Niall closed the storm door and locked it, keeping a hand on Harry throughout.

It was enough, then, pushing Niall down on the bed. Chasing the darkness away with the sweep of his mouth, the taste and feel of Niall dissolving everything else. It was enough.

*** * * * * * * * * * ***

Gemma comes to visit at the end of October. Pittsburgh’s in full fall, and leaves line the sidewalk, thick as fox fur.

New butterflies have hatched at work, so they visit Phipps like tourists. Gemma’s been there a few times, but she’s still full of delight when they get to the stove room.

“Oh my god,” she says. “They’re everywhere.” A tiger swallowtail lands on her head, and he gets a picture of it before it flies off.

It’s good to rediscover Pittsburgh, a place that has crawled so deep into his bones that it’s like he was never meant to live anywhere else. They spend hours in the shops on Walnut Street, getting little coffees, scouring for Christmas presents. It’s early for shopping, but Gemma’s always early about these things.

“Can we go in?” she asks, as they’re walking past the bakery. It smells heavenly, fresh bread and warm chocolate thick in the air. 

“Of course,” he says. He hasn’t been in for months, not since Camille ended things. It doesn’t matter. Even if she’s working, it’ll be fine - they fell apart as easily as they fell together, no hurt feelings. Or not badly hurt, anyway; a couple deep bruises scattered with the shallow ones. 

But Prantl’s is always packed, and he doesn’t see Camille anywhere inside. Gemma takes the paper number from the dispenser and waits. When it’s her turn at the counter, she orders little flamed flans, brown and gold like oak leaves. They eat them straight out of the tins with plastic spoons, walking back up Ivy to Harry’s apartment. It’s a good day. He falls asleep and sleeps all night, no issues.

On Sunday they go to Carson Street and wander around, flip through records at a place he’s never been. Harry finds two for Niall, on accident - a copy of The River, in almost-new condition, and when he sees the green corner of Pet Sounds poking out from behind a B-52’s album, he has to grab it. He doesn’t even know if Niall has a record player. He could text him and ask, but it’d ruin the surprise; if he doesn’t have one, that’s his problem. Harry can’t account for all of Niall’s bad life decisions.

“Let’s do the incline,” Gemma says, when they’re out of the record store. “We’ve never done this one before.”

“You and your inclines,” Harry says. “Such an impractical form of transportation.”

“_You’re _ an impractical form of transportation,” she says, and punches him in the arm.

“That doesn’t even make sense. And what’d you hit me for? That wasn’t very nice.”

“You know why.”

He takes her up the Monongahela incline. It’s chilly in the little cable car, getting winched up the side of a mountain. They get an ice cream at the top, although the wind bites into their faces and fingers. From Mount Washington, Pittsburgh spreads out in miniature.

“I like it here,” Gemma says, looking down at the city.

“I met someone,” he blurts. It’s the first time he’s said it to anyone, out loud.

Gemma turns around so fast, she almost drops her ice cream. “You asshole, I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. Tell me everything. Do I know them?”

“Well.” Where does he start? He didn’t think this far ahead, five seconds ago when his mouth took over. “You don’t know him. He’s, uh. He owns a bar, and that’s where he works. A bar. And, like. He has, you know, hair –“

“Oh my god, stop. Am I going to meet him?” Gemma asks, looking around Mount Washington like Niall’s just around the corner.

“Not – not now? He lives in West Virginia. I met him there.”

He watches her process the information; it plays out on her face, the way her eyebrows knit and her mouth goes flat. He knows that face, and he doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to justify wanting someone constantly out of reach.

“Okay,” she says, and smiles. “Show me a picture.”

She doesn’t say anything else about it until they’re riding back down the mountain, the incline’s steel cable pulling them down the hill at a sickening angle.

“Harry -” she starts, and the edges of her voice go strange.

The trees and bushes swoop past, dark and leafless, reaching out for him. Harry waits for the cable to snap, for him and Gemma to hurtle down into the brush. He takes a breath, and reaches for Gemma’s hand, and then he’s gone. One breath, he’s in the car, making its way down to the flats, the taste of mint chocolate chip still lingering on his tongue. In the next, he’s descending into fire, flames teasing the edges of the incline car. The car tilts, and he falls. Into smoke and ash, into screaming. 

He’s back before Gemma even notices, clammy and nauseated. She’s still talking, and he gulps air for a few seconds, getting his bearings. 

“ - I’m not saying it to be mean. Or because… I don’t know, because I think I know better than you or whatever people say when they’re about to give well-intended advice. But I think you should think about it,” she’s continuing, looking out over the city, carefully not looking at his face. The words fall out of her mouth, angular and black. “If long distance is what you need right now.”

“What does that even mean?” Harry asks, irritation pushing through the nausea. It orients him. “We’re not engaged, Gemma, this isn’t some period romance. He’s not writing me tortured letters, to press against my heaving bosom - “

“Sounds like you watched Atonement again.” Gemma says. 

“It’s a good movie.” He can’t laugh yet, not with the world still strange around him, too dark and full of corners. But the edge of his mouth twitches and he lets her lean into him, soak up some of his warmth while the wind whips off the river. 

“I won’t say anything else -” she starts.

“Starting now?” Harry asks.

“You’re such a fucking know it all,” Gemma says. “But I think you should ask yourself. Why you want to be with someone who’s so far away.”

On Monday he gets a postcard from Niall, fall trees climbing up the foothills of a mountain. “Greetings from West Virginia” it reads, in large block letters across the front. 

_ West Virginia misses you, _ Niall’s written on the back. _ Come check out the spectacular fall foliage. _

He pins it to the fridge with a magnet. But Gemma’s words stay with him, a root cutting that starts to sprout.

*** * * * * * * * * * * ***

At the beginning of November, with wedding season past its peak, he manages to get a full weekend off. He goes to visit Niall. Maybe he should, maybe he shouldn’t, but. His hands don’t hesitate at all, pushing the ignition and steering him to the highway, so it must be the right choice. 

The sun goes down so early this time of year, he doesn’t even get to appreciate West Virginia’s allegedly spectacular fall foliage on the drive south. It’s a long, plain stretch of road, rainy and split by occasional headlights. Not for the first time, he wonders what exactly they’re doing, stretching out a summer fling into something else. He watched Dirty Dancing too many times as a kid; he wants it all, not just the sultry montage sequence. 

He gets into Point Pleasant a little before nine. Niall’s working, and Harry wants to be the kind of person who plays it cool, who gets something to eat and sends a casual text, maybe a picture of the diner, maybe _ the bitch is back_. He’s not that kind of person, though. He steers his car right to The Corner Bar, a nervous wreck, back and stomach in a million knots. It’s good that he didn’t wait. Niall looks so happy to see him, he about vaults over the bar.

“You made it,” he says, standing just out of reach. A couple of patrons eye them, curious, and Niall shutters his face.

It’s weird how he can do that, slide blankness over his face like a habit. If Harry hadn’t seen his enormous smile just a second ago, he would have thought he made a terrible mistake, coming here. 

“I did,” Harry says, not bothering to hide his own grin.

“How are you? How was the drive?” Niall’s voice is casual, but his hands are anything but. He wraps his arm low on Harry’s back to guide him toward the bar, sneaking his fingers below the edge of his shirt.

“The drive was alright. Dark, you know. A few hours too long.”

“Hi, Harry.” Laura eyes him from behind the bar, searching his face. 

“Hi, Laura.” 

She must like what she sees there; she gives him a big smile and a nod.

Niall’s pushing on his lower back, behind the bar, to the office in the corner, next to the store room.

“Five minutes,” Laura says, as they walk past her.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Niall protests.

She rolls her eyes. “Seven minutes, or I’m using my key to barge in. Can’t make our poor patrons listen to you again, sorry.”

Harry blushes, but doesn’t have time to get anything out.

“Seven minutes,” Niall says, over his shoulder, and then they’re through the doorway.

Niall shoves him all the way into the office, and closes the door behind them. “Hi,” he says, smile back in place. He lets his eyes wander over Harry. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” Harry agrees, and takes a step closer. 

Niall waits for him, head tilted slightly, like he wants to see what Harry’s going to do.

He hadn’t planned this far. He presses Niall back against the door, careful. Presses himself against Niall. He runs so hot all the time. He slots their legs together and trails his fingers up Niall’s neck, digs them into Niall’s hair; tilts his head back. 

“Can’t believe you’re really here.” Harry says, digging his thumbs into the base of Niall’s skull.

“I’m always here. It’s you who’s not.” Niall blinks up at him, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “Only five minutes left, Harold.”

“Don’t rush me, Niall.”

“Always bringing the romance,” Niall mocks, and then Harry’s kissing the words off his mouth.

It’s slow and soft, not what he meant. But once he starts, he can’t stop; pushing their mouths together, reveling in the pressure of Niall’s lips against his.

“Missed you,” Harry says, in between kisses. It’s easy to say, with no space between them.

He swipes his tongue against Niall’s bottom lip, getting greedier as they go on. Niall opens his mouth and makes a noise; Harry swallows it. It settles low in his belly.

Things are starting to get out of hand when Laura knocks on the door. 

“Time’s up, my dudes.”

Harry pulls back. Niall smiles at him, hazy and sweet, unguarded.

“I’m off in an hour, give or take.” Niall toys with the edge of Harry’s sleeve. “Do you want to wait here or go back to mine?”

“Yours, if that’s okay.”

“I just said it was. Why wouldn’t it be?” Niall says, pushing himself off the door. He smooths his shirt and opens the door. “Well. Duty calls.”

Niall wakes him up when he gets home from work. Harry fell asleep sprawled across the bed, like he was trying to absorb as much of Niall as possible.

“You’re actually here,” Niall says, sitting on the edge closest Harry. He runs his fingers down Harry’s spine, bare beneath the sheet. “Sounds so dumb when I say it out loud, but. Thought you’d disappear, or something. Like a mirage.”

“Mmm,” Harry groans and rolls onto his back, holding out his arms. “Come here.”

Sex is like sinking endlessly into Niall’s hot body. He’s still sleepy, and it seems almost like a dream: Niall twisting beneath him, above him. 

“I missed you,” Niall pants. Harry thrusts harder. “Oh god, do that again.”

He loves the pattern of Niall’s voice in his ear, the way he talks, the easy way he finds words around his pleasure, the generosity of giving those words to Harry.

Niall rides him, and Harry clutches his fingers hard into his hips, watching the O of his red mouth, the flush climbing up his chest. When he comes, spurting hot over Harry’s chest, it sets off Harry’s own orgasm, wrings Harry dry.

In the morning, Niall throws some shit into a cooler and they get in Niall’s truck and go somewhere secret. 

“Where are we going?” Harry asks.

“Took the day off,” Niall says. “Laura swapped me, I’m gonna owe her for a month.”

“That’s not an answer.” 

Niall winks and keeps on driving. They head west into Ohio, and then south. Harry feels loose, relaxed all over. The mid-morning sun pierces through the leaves; just past peak, they’re as splendid as Niall said they would be.

They don’t drive long before Niall turns off Highway 218, onto a winding road that takes them into heavy forest. Niall keeps driving, sure of himself. They take another turn and come out of the trees, into a large meadowed area. Niall pulls the truck over, half in the ditch.

“We’re here,” Niall says. He looks out of the driver’s window. “Lucky it’s been dry, I guess.”

The field is thick with New England Aster and goldenrod, and _ Andropogon gerardii _, taller than him in some sections. 

“This is beautiful,” Harry says, stepping into the grass. There’s a bite of cold in the air; who knows how much longer these flowers will hold out before they’re withered by frost.

“Come on,” Niall says. “There’s a good trail just over there.”

The trail runs through the meadow, and into the shallow reaches of the forest. They hike in comfortable silence for a while, long enough for Harry to warm up from the exertion. The wildlife area is quiet, in the way of nature - full of birdsong and not much else. If he strains, he can hear some traffic in the distance. It’s been a long time since he’s been fully out of the city.

Sun splits through the canopy, making inkblot tests of light and shadow on the dirt path. He’s startled by a snake, sunning itself on a patch of leaves so close to the trail that he almost steps right on it. 

Harry lets out a shriek, thin and high, and collides with Niall when he jumps backward. Niall tries to steady him, but they go down, a tangle of limbs on the soft floor of the woods.

Niall’s laugh spills over the empty world. “It’s just a garter snake, Harry. No need to knock the wind out of me.”

“I know,” Harry says, rolling over to put them face to face. Niall’s crowned by a halo of downed leaves, and his eyes are startlingly blue against the brown backdrop.

Niall winces. “Don’t kiss me here, jesus, it’s filthy -”

“I like filthy,” Harry says, leaning down the rest of the way.

It’s a lazy kiss, lazy as their hike, as the slow spread of fall reaching its fingers further south, day by day, with its promise of both sleep and also better things to come.

When they get back to the clearing, Niall gets a blanket out of the back of the truck and they set out a picnic, unpacking the contents of the cooler. 

“When did you pack all of this?” Harry says, amazed by the number of sandwiches and other oddities that Niall brought along; olives and cheese, apple slices.

“While you were in the shower for twenty minutes.”

“Hygiene is important, Niall,” he says, throwing an olive across the blanket. 

Niall catches it and pops it in his mouth. “Just what I wanted. Thanks.”

After lunch, they lay on the blanket, soaking up the fall sun. He has no idea what time it is - noon, two p.m., anything in between. Time’s a curious thing, enfolding all those possibilities. Fall seems endless, a slow dance through the most nostalgic song of the year. Today, they’re living in its golden dome, holding back the night with both hands. Tomorrow, Harry drives back for the second time, and the distance will yawn between them.

“Thanks for bringing me here. It’s incredible.” Harry feels like he’s pulling his voice from the other side of the earth. “It’s really incredible.”

“You’re welcome. Found this place a few years ago, and I dunno. I just like it, I guess.”

“How’d you end up here?” Harry asks. “Not here, specifically, I mean. _ Here _, like. Point Pleasant. This part of the world. Owning a bar.” 

Niall doesn’t answer right away. He’s sprawled on his back, eyes closed to the slant of the sun. Harry closes his own eyes, so he can see what Niall does. It’s just red light shining through his eyelids.

“My granddad owned the bar,” Niall says, slowly. His voice has that scratch in it that Harry loves, that worms its way into his ear until it’s the only voice he wants to hear. “Didn’t know him well. He was a hard man to know, and I’m not too close with my mom’s side. But he died, and left me the bar.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, carefully. It’s the most Niall has ever told him, probably. He forgets sometimes that they’ve only known each other for a few weeks; they’ve both given little of themselves, comparatively. 

“Don’t be.” Niall rolls over and opens his eyes, smooths a finger over Harry’s eyebrow. “He disowned my mom after the divorce. Don’t know why he didn’t give the bar to Greg, but he died, and he left it to me. So I left school, and moved here, and learned how to run a bar.”

“Why’d you do it, if you didn’t even like him?”

“‘S a good question. They let me finish school online, or I wouldn’t have done it.” He shrugs, best he can, lying on his side. “And there was some kind of justice to it, knowing my granddad accidentally left his bar to be run by a gay man. It would have driven him crazy, to know it.” He smiles into Harry’s eye. “And seven years later, here I am.”

“Here you are,” Harry agrees, taking Niall’s hand, covering his own heart with it. “I’m glad. Not -” Harry’s eyes get wide. “Not like that, like -”

“Glad my granddad died, you’re such a fucking catch.” Niall scoots closer, cupping the back of Harry’s head with his other hand.

“Shut up,” Harry says, and kisses him.

It’s later when things start to fall apart. He should have expected it - it’s the heart of botony. Nothing stays in a permanent state, it’s always a cycle of bloom and decay, bloom and decay. 

But they’re warm and tangled together, and Harry’s plastered against Niall’s side like he might actually be able to crawl into Niall’s bones this time. The buzz below his skin is smothered for a bit, a hummingbird resting its wings.

Niall’s quiet, carding his hand through Harry’s hair, and the repetitive motion relaxes him even further. He could live like this, he realizes. Keep coming around, make space for Niall in his own life.

It slips out before he can stop it. “Pittsburgh’s nice this time of year, you know.”

Niall laughs and smooths a curl. “I’m sure it is.” He sounds half asleep, not serious. 

Harry picks at it like a scab; he can’t help it. “Do you think you’d come visit, some time?”

“I don’t know,” Niall says, and the bottom drops out of Harry’s stomach. “That would take some work.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees. He fights to stay relaxed, to act like it’s not a big deal.

Niall’s hand stills in his hair. “It’s hard to get away,” he says, slowly. “I don’t just have someone to run the bar in my place.”

“I know,” Harry says, the rest of what he wants to say snarling up in his chest. Maybe Gemma had a point, and what works about this is that Harry never stays. “It’s just a thought.”

“We’ll see.” Niall yawns and tucks a last piece of hair behind Harry’s ear, and it’s hard not to flinch.

Harry lays there for a few moments, heat climbing into his face, and then rolls away on the pretense of stretching.

Niall stays silent, not offering up further explanation. Harry can feel him settling in, shifting into his pillow in preparation for sleep.

Harry sits up, fakes a yawn. “I’ll be back in a minute.” 

He can’t get out of the bedroom fast enough, once he’s made his excuse. He’s embarrassed and hurt, and he knows it’s written in every line of his body. He’s never been good at holding things in; even now, his eyes are hot and prickly.

He escapes to the porch, where the air is fresh and cold, and a million stars jewel the sky. Some other time, he could appreciate it. Right now, he can’t. He feels dumb, so fucking dumb, standing on Niall’s porch, replaying their conversation.

A wind kicks up, thrumming through the scrub and trees. In a heartbeat, everything changes. Cold sweat beads on Harry’s neck, but he can’t move. He knows what’s coming next.

The stars snuff out, all at once, and the sky is flat black. Fear sluices through him like a river, stronger and worse than ever before. The wings beat overhead, huge and deafening, getting louder and closer as they start to descend. He’s choking on fire, the smell of scorched concrete. 

“Harry. _ Harry.” _

He flails against the hands restricting him. Niall grabs his hands and holds them, anchoring. Harry comes out of it, gasping like a fish. The yard is normal again, plants and birds and the night sounds of the country.

“Are you okay?” Niall asks, squeezing his shoulders. “Talk to me. What was it -”

Harry shakes his head and shrugs Niall’s hands off. He can’t be touched right now, while he’s trying to find words. They dry up in his throat before he can form them.

In the dim light of the porch, Niall’s face takes on shadow; too much shadow, pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. For a second, his features shift and change - like that first night, Harry remembers, where there was too much red in his hair, in his eyes.

And that’s it; the final straw. If hysteria and sadness weren’t still clawing up the edges of his throat, he might react differently. But it’s fuel to the fire: Niall saying this isn’t important to him, whatever they’re becoming; Niall changing in front of him, fraying into darkness. Fear eats at him, insistent. It’s too much. He presses the palms of his hands to his eyes.

“Hey,” Niall says, prying at Harry’s fingers. “Look at me.”

“I can’t do this,” Harry says. He turns and goes inside the house, before Niall can respond.

Niall follows him anyway, of course; it’s his fucking house that Harry’s in, after all.

“_Harry_,” Niall says, imploring, for the second time that night. Something’s not right, when Niall has to talk to him in that voice, careful and tight.

“I have to go,” he says, and keeps moving. In the bedroom, he starts packing what little shit was unpacked to begin with, throwing it into his bag.

“Harry, stop. Talk to me,” Niall says. “I don’t - I don’t know what’s going on right now.”

Niall sounds calm and scared, all mingled together. It stops Harry for a minute, as he’s about to shoulder his bag. The terror’s starting to dull, stabilizing into electric current, running smooth behind his breastbone. It helps him see clearly, for the first time in a long time.

Tonight took an unexpected turn. He’s upset with Niall, but more than that - he has to go back, he can’t wait until tomorrow. He knows it like a fact, like he knows the molecular structure of mescaline. Pittsburgh’s pulling him, that invisible rubber band drawn to snapping; there’s something he’s supposed to do.

Niall tries to stop him, of course, standing in front of him in the driveway.

“Harry. You can’t drive like this. It’s two thirty in the morning, for fuck’s sake.”

“I can’t stay here, not now.” He can’t. He’s upset, but something else is tugging at him. He kisses Niall, hastily, hitting the corner of his mouth. “I have to go back. I can’t - I can’t explain, but I know it. I’ll call you.”

Niall clings to him, stubborn. “Doesn’t feel that way,” he says.

“I’ll call,” Harry insists, stepping out of Niall’s arms.

He gets back in the car and drives away, drives back. He calms as he goes, now that he’s finally on a trajectory that makes sense.

He gets home before the sun even creeps above the edge of the earth, and falls into his bed. 

_ I’m home_, he texts Niall, before he forgets. He drops his phone on the floor next to the bed. Thank god it’s Sunday and he doesn’t have to work; thank god his body actually lets him sleep, wired as it is with the weird night and long drive.

But he sleeps restlessly. The dream twists over him, relentless: he’s in a smoke-filled room, the curtains are on fire. He’s in a stairwell, trying to get out; everyone’s trying to get out. He’s on a sidewalk, puking ash into a tiny bag. Someone’s yelling for their dog, hoarse and frantic. 

He wakes up with his face pressed into the wall and flames still grabbing at the soles of his feet. It’s been an hour since he got home. The sun’s just coming up. And he knows, suddenly, what he’s meant to do. 

He flings himself out of bed, down the street. Stands on the corner of Ellsworth and Negley, staring at the apartment building there. It’s still early, there aren’t many people wandering the neighborhood. There’s a whiff of smoke on the air. He unpockets his phone and dials 911.

“Fire,” he says. “There’s a fire.” 

It’s chaos after that. The fire squad arrives while he’s still giving his information to the dispatcher; they storm the building while a steady stream of people stumble out. 

He’s swamped in deja vu so strong, it makes him dizzy. This is it - the same gray morning he’s been dreaming of for weeks. Standing on the sidewalk, he’s surrounded by familiar faces; people he’s never seen before, in waking life. 

It’s not all the same. Smoke’s not pouring from the windows. The woman next to him yawns and rubs her eyes. She doesn’t sob into her hands, today. They all huddle in blankets while the firemen do their work; taking Harry’s information, talking to the other witnesses. It’s good that there were other people around - he’s just realized he’s wearing two different shoes. He’s not the most reliable witness.

Eventually the evacuees get to go back in the building, and Harry gets to go home. The fire fighters don’t tell them anything other than that it’s safe to go in.

“We caught it early,” one says, to the woman next to Harry. “There’s some smoke damage, and your kitchen’s a mess right now. Is there somewhere else you can stay while the landlord gets it cleaned up?” 

Harry doesn’t stay to hear her answer. Now that it’s over, the fire, whatever’s been hanging over him these past few weeks, it’s like the rubber band has snapped, and all he feels is relief. Like he can go back to being himself; just Harry, no extra.

What that means for him and Niall, he’s too exhausted to think about. It’s a three-block walk to his apartment, give or take, and by the time he makes it home, up the stairs, through the door, he can barely keep his eyes open. He crawls into bed and sleeps, at last.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time he wakes up, and late enough that there’s probably only an hour or two of daylight left. His whole body aches, like he’s been pressed flat by a road roller and is just starting to expand again. There’s a particular ache in the middle of his chest, a little lake of pain that surges and ripples when he thinks about Niall. Not just the way they left things, when Harry ran out last night, raw and driven. More like the way Niall hesitated when Harry asked about visiting. Or the way Harry’s been tangling himself in Niall, without ever checking that Niall’s been tangling back.

His phone buzzes on the floor, and he leans over the side of the bed, far enough to scoop it up. He doesn’t feel like getting up, though he’s going to have to eat at some point. Take a piss, take a shower. For now, it’s easier to pretend his body’s a separate entity.

He’s got two texts from Niall: _ text me when you wake up _ and then _ I’ll call u later_. He’s got a missed call from Niall, as well, but no voicemail. 

He could call Niall back, but he doesn’t. It’s too soon for Harry to know what he wants to say, and it’s important to say the right thing, for once. How could he even summarize it? _ I dreamed about a fire, and a fire happened. I stopped it before it got too far. I don’t think you want me the same way I want you. Maybe we should stop, too? _It seems desperate and weird, even if it’s true. He doesn’t want to be the only one burning.

But he doesn’t want to be mean and none of this is actually Niall’s fault, so he texts him back.

**Sorry, just woke up. All is well, call you tomorrow.**

He can’t think of an excuse for why they can’t talk now, but he sends it anyway. Hopefully Niall won’t press it.

He scrolls through the Post-Gazette, and finds three lines in reference to the fire. _ Apartment fire at Shadyside’s Ellsworth Towers. The fire began this morning but was caught before significant damage was done; investigation underway. No one injured or evacuated. _

Dinner is a quiet affair, miso soup and tuna salad. _ Revolting, _Niall would say, if he were there. He’s not there, and he hasn’t responded to Harry’s text. That could go either way, good or bad. 

After dinner, against his better instincts, he flicks through a few podcasts on supernatural phenomena. There are so many, it’s hard to know where to begin. He finds a handful that feature an episode on the mothman. And fuck it - if this is going to be his life now, or if it was a part of his life, a thing that actually happened to him, he might as well get it over with. It’s the scientist in him that walks to the kitchen first, cracks open a bottle of red. He pours the wine into the largest glass he has, settles in the living room, in the comfortable armchair, and presses play.

Five minutes in and he has to pause. His head’s spinning, and it’s not from the wine. Everything the host is saying, _first_ _spotted in Point Pleasant_, _foreshadowing tragedy_, Harry knew already - but in the context of what’s been happening over the past six weeks, it takes on new meaning. Bile splashes into his throat; he chases it down with a gulp of wine. 

“Well,” he says, out loud, to his cactus, spiny and diminutive, to his apartment, bright and carpeted and sealed against the early night. It’s an impossibility, it’s the most ridiculous thought he’s ever had. He wants to call Niall, suddenly and severely, and the whiplash of wanting against his own hurt feelings is enough to keep his hand clutched around the wine glass. He starts the podcast over.

Monday breaks and rolls over him, inevitable as all Mondays everywhere, and it’s one of those early November days, brittle with chill, that feels like winter is imminent. He’s exhausted but wired, up half the night like he was, falling deeper into mothman lore; he feels like he swallowed half the internet, and all he has to show for it is a crackpot theory that no one he knows would ever believe. He met the mothman. He saw the future. He prevented a tragedy. It’s insanity. There are people that would believe him, though - people muttering into microphones in homemade studios and basements - but people, nonetheless. At least he’s got that. 

Sarah’s not working, which ends up being okay; it means he doesn’t have to answer any questions about his weekend. He never told her about Niall, or the dreams, or the way people sometimes warped and stretched, right in front of him. She’s got an eye for knowing when he’s off, though, and he feels precariously close to spilling over. The pool in his chest is tender as ever, a slurry of hurt that he’s hesitant to look at for too long. He still hasn’t heard from Niall. And he wanted his space, but wanted it on his own terms. He didn’t want Niall to offer it so freely.

Tending the ferns is soothing. Some of the Christmas order has come in, and it’s thorough work: cataloguing what’s arrived, making sure the plants are in good condition; triaging the ones that aren’t. It’s busywork, but he needs to stay busy. 

The day whittles away. He eats a cold sandwich in the bonsai room and doesn’t look at his phone. Nick’s trying to square away holiday party plans - extra-pouty, since Harry missed his Halloween bash - but Harry doesn’t respond, since he’s not looking at his phone. There’s a boat in his stomach, being eaten by an acid sea. It’s taking all his energy to keep it afloat.

The air tastes like snow when he finally leaves for the day. November’s too early for snow, usually, unless it’s blowing in off Lake Erie. He hasn’t checked the weather in days, let alone watched the news. He catalogues his cupboard on the drive home, in case there’s a blizzard on the way. Soup: check. Pot noodles: check. Coconut water: check. It’s a distraction, but he’ll take what he can get. At the end of his drive is home - and though he’s grateful for his hands, and the easy way they start his car and turn the steering wheel, now that he’s himself again - he owes Niall a phone call, and he still has no idea what to say or how to predict the outcome.

He gets home to find the downstairs neighbors have taken all the off-street parking spots. By a minor miracle, he finds an open spot on his one-way chunk of Ivy Street. Parallel parking is always a rush, a little like winning a video game or getting a tricky stem cutting to take root. 

It’s dark already, though it’s just after five o’clock, and he hustles inside. The night here doesn’t harbor any strange secrets that he knows of, but why take the risk?

It doesn’t matter. In a few seconds, he’s safely in the house, bolting up the stairway to the third floor. He slows when he hears a cough from the stairway above him, past the second-floor landing. He turns the corner, a claw of fear scuttling through him. But it’s just Niall, entire and in person. Still something to be scared of, for different reasons. He’s sitting on the top step, directly in front of Harry’s door, staring at Harry like he’s just as surprised to see him there.

“Niall,” Harry says, taking the last few steps at a snail’s pace. What should he do? He hadn’t accounted for this contingency at all, when he was working through his plans, what he wanted to say.

“Harry,” Niall says. He stands up and shifts over, so Harry can finish climbing. 

The third floor landing is tiny, and there’s barely room for both of them. Harry’s stifles a dreadful impulse to pull Niall into a hug, clamping his arms down by his sides with an effort.

Niall doesn’t bother. “Come here,” he says, pulling Harry closer, winding his arms around his back and shoulders, one each way. He relaxes into it, despite himself.

“Total hug coverage,” Harry mutters, into his shoulder.

Niall laughs quietly, chest shaking against Harry’s. “It’s my signature move,” he says, pulling back. His face gets serious. “Hey - “

“How are you here?” Harry interrupts. He fishes his keys out of his coat pocket, fumbling to find the right one.

“The usual way, I guess. Put some gas in the truck, turned it north.”

Harry lets them into his apartment, waving Niall ahead. It’s pitch-black inside, until Harry flicks the light switch just inside the door.

“Hey,” Niall says, again. 

He stays at arm’s-length, keeping his eyes on Harry’s face. Now that they’re inside, there’s nowhere to escape. And Niall probably didn’t drive all this way to end things, which makes it easier for Harry to shut up and listen. 

“I’m sorry.” Niall fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. “For a few things. Coming here uninvited, first off.”

“You’re always welcome here.”

“For brushing you off the other night,” Niall continues, like Harry hasn’t spoken. He takes a step forward, into Harry’s space. “I’m no good at this, the more than one night stuff. And I keep - keep waiting for you to figure that out, you know.”

“Niall -” Harry reaches out, tangles their hands together. Niall’s fingers are cold against his.

“No, let me finish. I had a long drive to figure out what I wanted to say.”

“Oooh, did you write me a speech?” Harry asks, batting his eyelashes. Niall’s here, in his house, and he’s almost giddy with it. He tugs Niall closer, so he can work the zipper on his jacket down.

“No, I - Harry_, _ stop -” he bats Harry’s hands off his coat. “I like you, you know? I don’t know what to do next or, like, how this is going to work. Or if it’s even going to work at all. Which one of us will flake out first.”

“Hey. I don’t flake out,” Harry says. Niall rolls his eyes. “‘Much, okay. I like you, too.” The boat in his stomach does a backflip; boats shouldn’t do that, but it’s alright.

He drags Niall into the living room proper, so they’re not just standing by the door.

“Good,” Niall says, lifting his chin a little. “So I can stay?”

Harry leans in and kisses the end of Niall’s chin, the tiny dip there shaped just right for the bow of his lips. Niall sighs, and Harry kisses his jaw, and finally his mouth.

“You can stay,” he says. “But you have to take your coat off.”

Niall smiles, bright and edged with relief. “Done.” He shrugs out of his jacket and looks around the room for the first time. “Where do you want me to put it?”

“Throw it on the floor, I don’t care,” Harry says, happiness foaming up in him like a root beer float.

Niall winces, and drapes it over the back of the comfortable armchair. He’s wrapped in a fuzzy sweater, and looks soft and tired. 

“So this is your place, huh.”

“This is my place.” He tugs his own coat off and drops it on the floor. “I’ll show you around in a minute. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Niall says, stepping close again.

Harry’s eyes flutter shut as Niall wraps a hand around the back of his neck and kisses him, sure and slow. 

“Excellent.” Harry digs his hands into Niall’s lower back, where he knows the muscles get tight. “I have a crazy story to tell you.”

“I like crazy stories,” Niall says, as Harry leads him towards the kitchen’s narrow alleyway, tucked next to the living room.

“I’m banking on it,” Harry says. 

In the brightly-lit rectangle, it all seems impossible. That they’re here, together; that Harry can cook dinner for them on a device that harnesses energy from a plug in the wall; that somewhere above them, around them, the mothman might be real.

He grabs Niall a beer from the fridge and hands it over. 

“Thanks,” Niall says, popping the top.

“No problem.” Harry pulls a pot out of the cabinet and starts filling it with water. “Have you ever seen the future?”

[come say hi on tumblr :)](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/187431002353/ventured-in-the-slipstream-pairing-narry-rating)


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